Chapter 7-Sloane
It's been three days.
Three whole days since Micah Fiero pretended to be my boyfriend when a couple of drunk morons decided my being polite meant I owed them something.
It still makes my blood boil.
Not just for me.
For every woman who's ever smiled because her job required it, only to have some jackass mistake basic human decency for an invitation.
I wasn't asking for their attention.
I didn't want it.
And I sure as hell didn't deserve to have one of them tugging on my apron strings like I belonged to him.
No means no.
It shouldn't be revolutionary.
It should just be the truth.
Thank God Micah was there.
The memory makes me smile despite myself.
He hadn't hesitated.
Not for a second.
One look at my face and he understood exactly what I needed without making me explain.
“I'm almost done, Babe.”
I'd been bluffing.
Desperate.
Hoping he'd play along.
Instead, he'd looked at me with those steady blue eyes, called me Princess like he'd been saying it forever, and stepped right into the role.
“I’ll be here. Just take your time, Princess.”
Just like that.
No questions.
No awkwardness.
No making me feel foolish afterward.
Then he'd said some words and stared those two idiots down until they practically tripped over themselves running for the door.
Part of me wonders if he was just being a good guy.
The quiet cowboy helping out the frazzled bartender.
But another part...
The hopeful, reckless part I've been trying very hard to ignore...
Keeps wondering if maybe...
Just maybe...
He wouldn't mind the job full-time.
The be my boyfriend job I mean.
The thought makes my cheeks warm.
God.
Listen to me.
We've barely had a real conversation, and I'm already imagining him as my boyfriend.
Maybe I really have lost my mind.
Still, he did more than play hero that night. And I haven’t stopped thinking about it since.
Three days is a long time in Dry Creek.
And it’s been three days since he changed the filters in my van without asking.
Three days since he called me Princess.
Three days since he looked me dead in the eye like pretending to be my man was the most ordinary thing in the world.
Like taking care of me wasn't a burden.
Like it was simply what he wanted to do.
But the thing I really can’t stop thinking about?
Is the way he kissed me in the alley.
No audience.
No playing fake boyfriend.
It was a moment stolen out of time and it’s been on replay ever since.
Okay.
Not just the kiss.
Him.
Micah is literally all I've thought about since.
It wasn’t some quick peck. Not some cocky, overconfident move like the guys who hang around Patrick always try to pull.
No.
Micah’s kiss had been careful.
Tentative.
Like he wanted me more than he trusted himself.
Like he'd spent weeks talking himself out of touching me before finally giving in.
I still haven't figured him out.
Most men buy flowers.
Or ask for your number.
Or, if they're Patrick's friends, whistle every time you bend over to grab a case of beer.
But Micah?
He pretends to be your boyfriend when customers get stupid.
He changes the cabin air filter in your van because he noticed your asthma acting up.
He checks the oil while he's at it.
Carries your trash to the dumpster without making a big deal out of it.
Calls you Princess like it's the most natural thing in the world.
Then kisses you so gently it steals every coherent thought from your head.
But after? Well, after he disappears before you can even figure out what happened.
Who even does that?
Men! Ugh.
And the maddening part?
I haven't been able to stop thinking about him since.
Every time I drive home and the air coming through the vents is clean instead of dusty, I think of Micah.
Every time I catch myself touching my lips, remembering how careful he'd been, I think of Micah.
Every time I close my eyes all I see is him.
Those pale blue eyes waiting for me.
Steady.
Intense.
Watching me like I was something precious.
Something worth protecting.
It's ridiculous.
I've barely spoken a dozen sentences to the man.
I don't know his favorite food.
Or his birthday.
Or whether he takes cream in his coffee.
But somehow...
That quiet, bearded cowboy who'd rather fix my van than flirt with me has taken up permanent residence in my thoughts.
And that's dangerous.
Because I have far too much work to do to be building castles in the sky over a man who, for all I know, kissed me once because he felt sorry for me.
Shit.
I need to get a grip.
There are customers coming.
Bills to pay.
A kitchen to open.
Dreaming about Micah Fiero isn't going to keep this place running.
Even if a tiny, traitorous part of me wishes he'd walk through that door tonight.
Please, oh please.
I smile despite myself as I pull another rack of pint glasses from the sanitizer.
My van hasn't smelled musty once since.
The air conditioner actually blows cold now.
Breathing on the drive home has been easier.
Of course, I noticed.
The ridiculous thing is I never got to thank him properly.
By the time I'd gotten over my surprise that night, he'd already mumbled something about preventative maintenance, shrugged like replacing filters on near strangers' vehicles was perfectly normal behavior, and disappeared into the darkness before I could collect my thoughts.
Weird man.
Sweet man.
But yeah, very weird.
My smile fades.
Who am I kidding?
He probably wasn't flirting.
That's just Micah.
Quiet.
Helpful.
Gone before anyone can make a fuss.
Besides, he clearly doesn't want anything to do with me.
Half the time he barely says two words.
Maybe that's just how he is.
Or maybe—I shake my head and laugh at myself.
“Stop it, Sloane.”
I don't have time to build castles in the sky.
Not when there's inventory to finish.
Not when the weekend rush starts in twenty minutes.
Not when I'm already two prep lists behind because Milly called out sick.
Again.
The dining room smells faintly of lemon cleaner and barbecue sauce as I line freshly polished pint glasses along the shelves behind the bar.
One.
Two.
Three.
The rhythm usually calms me.
Tonight?
Not so much.
Because every time the front door jingles, my stupid heart hopes it'll be him.
It isn't.
By the fourth false alarm, I roll my eyes at myself.
Get a grip.
The man changed your air filter and stole a kiss.
He didn't propose.
The back door slams hard enough to rattle the liquor bottles.
I jump.
Patrick stumbles inside.
Immediately something feels wrong.
Off.
He reeks.
Not just of beer.
Whiskey too.
Strong enough that I can smell it from fifteen feet away.
His eyes are bloodshot.
Not tired.
Wild.
His pupils are blown wide despite the bright lights overhead.
His movements are jerky.
Too fast.
Too sharp.
Like he's vibrating beneath his own skin.
A knot forms low in my stomach.
“Patrick?”
He ignores me.
Starts opening drawers.
Slamming them shut.
Opening another.
“What are you looking for?”
He whirls toward me.
“Where's last night's deposit bag?”
The words slur together.
His breathing sounds too quick.
Too shallow.
I blink.
“I...” I frown. “I made the deposit last night.”
He freezes.
For one heartbeat.
Then his face twists.
“What?”
“I dropped it at the night deposit like always.”
“The bank?”
“Yes...”
“No!” he shouts, slamming both hands onto the bar hard enough to make every glass rattle. “No, no, no!”
I stare at him.
“What is going on?”
“I needed that money!”
His voice cracks.
“I need it today!”
Confusion washes over me.
“What do you mean you needed it? It belongs in the bank.”
He paces behind the bar.
Hands dragging through his hair.
“Crap... crap... crap!”
“Patrick.”
He doesn't answer.
“Patrick!”
“What?” he snaps.
“You're scaring me.”
That finally slows him down.
Just a little.
He looks at me.
Really looks.
Then forces a laugh that sounds painfully fake.
“It's nothing.”
“It doesn't feel like nothing.”
His red-rimmed eyes narrow.
And just for a moment, I swear it’s like a stranger is looking at me.
“Look, I just forgot I had to pay somebody.”
“You owe someone money? Who?”
“Just...”
He waves a hand.
“It’s no one. Just a guy.”
“What guy? How much?”
“Mind your fucking business, Sloane!”
“What? Patrick, you don't have business you don't tell me about. Not since last time. Right?”
His jaw clenches.
“You know, you’re asking a lot of questions lately.”
“I'm asking because you're acting strange, and this place is our last shot.”
“I'm fine. Just shut up already.”
“You've been drinking.”
“So what?”
“It's not even four-thirty.”
“Yeah? Big fucking deal, Sloane.”
“You look like shit and you're slurring your words.”
His nostrils flare.
“Are you my mother now? Is that it?”
“What? No.”
“You playing like you’re my big sister now?”
“Patrick, no. That’s not it. But you’re acting—”
“What I do doesn’t concern you! Mind your damn business, you fat bitch.”
The words hit harder than they should.
Not because he's never spoken to me like that before.
He has.
But it’s been a while.
And after the last time shit blew up in our faces, Patrick promised me he’d change.
And now? Now, I don't believe him.
I don’t think this is nothing.
Because I know something's wrong.
Really wrong.
A sick feeling settles in my stomach.
I think back.
The last few nights he’s been weird.
Evasive. Secretive.
Phone calls he's been walking outside to take.
Cash disappearing from the register before being mysteriously “found.”
I recall the second mortgage on his house years ago. He blamed the medical bills.
I only just learned that most of those are still unpaid.
Gone into collection.
I haven’t confronted him yet.
When I think about it all?
The moves.
The fresh starts.
The promises.
The loans.
The rebuilding.
I get so damn mad.
A memory suddenly surfaces.
Dad arguing with him in hushed voices after midnight.
“You can't keep borrowing your way out of this. Gambling is a disease, Patty!”
Gambling.
Not business.
Not bills.
Gambling.
I swallow hard.
No, he couldn’t. Patrick wouldn't. Not with my money and my credit.
Would he?
Before I can think of another question, the front door jingles.
Customers.
The first wave of Friday night.
Patrick straightens instantly.
Like someone flipped a switch.
The manic look disappears.
The smile comes back.
Easy.
Charming.
Practiced.
“I need money, so,” he says pleasantly, smoothing down his shirt. “Let's make some money.”
He walks away before I can stop him.
Leaving me standing behind the bar.
Staring after him.
My hands suddenly start shaking as I reach for another glass.
For the first time in years, I wonder if I ever really knew my brother at all.